


catharsis

by demios



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, DRK quest spoilers, Gen, Missing Scene, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-06-18 23:02:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15496704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demios/pseuds/demios
Summary: Liminal space from the other side of the mirror.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> uhh i wanted to try experimenting with my writing so. here's a thing that's basically a headcanon dump

The aether is _strange_ when it coalesces and coagulates. You have always rested quietly, bathed in a wellspring of life and light. Subdued. Tame.

But this is white-hot rage and fear and pain like you’ve never known, yet at the same time, you know it only too well. It resonates to the point where it shakes you to your core, or what semblance of one you have, and the darkness envelops you in comforting tendrils until you notice something is _wrong._

You are solid. You’re not supposed to be.

You stand in the Brume and you know every ilm of it, despite never having set foot into it until now. The familiar weight of a sword rests upon your back and a white puff of breath escapes you in the bitterly cold air. Neither of these are yours to have. Only one thought crosses your mind.

Fray Myste is dead.

Whether they’re in Halone’s bosom fondling her great tits, or sent to the seventh gate by the Fury herself, you don’t know, nor is it your concern. You are not Fray Myste.

Whatever may live in you is long dead and dying still but _someone_ is intent on keeping it alive, if only for a moment. And that someone is on the ground, gasping and sweating because they felt it, too. You stand over them, knowing they’re reliving someone else’s final hour. _Do you see? This is what awaits you at the end of your path of glory. Enough is enough. It’s time to wake up._ The haze around the soul crystal in their grasp ebbs a fraction, loosening its hold on them. Good. They’ll come to soon.

You take a deep breath and decide how you want to play along with this little charade as you wait on the unsteady scaffolding. The wood creaks under your feet when you shift your weight. You have memories now, sitting in the back of your borrowed skull. Fray Myste’s life was a fitful spell, all fire and blood. You want to laugh, maybe. And you’re a little offended when you think about it. They called you – _them_ – a heretic, and let the gods decide your fate.

Well, the gods decided Fray Myste would die and you’d live.

Though it’s not entirely the Twelve’s doing. You are like this because _they_ will it – whether they realize it or not. They want a teacher, a role model. Someone who will say and do the things they cannot. They will have one. You’ve always been good to them.

When they wake, you introduce yourself as _Fray_ and give them what they want – a sword, a crystal, and a voice. You lead them to the justice they so desire, let them play the hero they’ve always wanted, and watch as they taste the power they need. They’re absolutely breathtaking when they embrace it all.

When it’s over, you reconvene at the same place you met. A light flurry of snow has started to fall from the skies, dancing in front of the lanterns keeping the night at bay. Your pale eyes have an unnatural glow in the dark. They pay it no mind, instead anticipating your next grain of wisdom. You have but one question to ask.

“If you want to keep going, you have to trust in me. Can you do that?” Without a hint of hesitation, they nod eagerly. It’s endearing.

-

They’re quite inquisitive the next time you meet.

You give a curt reply, because this rendezvous isn’t about you. It’s about them. “There was a girl. An innocent. They wanted her, and I objected.”

You leave out her name, how you caught wind of her mother keeping her captive, and the way her bird-boned frame shivered in your arms the night you carried her out. You also leave out her aptitude for conjury, her love of the fresh forest air and mirror apples, and her wide grin when you took lessons together in the sun-dappled clearings with only greenery around.

You push the unnecessary feelings down. They want power. You can see it in their hungry eyes.

“Communion,” you say. “That will hasten the process.”

The first you heard of it, you were less elegant yet just as desperate. You were just picked up by your master and caught a cold – your scrawny, starved body might not have held up in winter, so you whimpered and begged through your hellish fever to be _stronger_ . Your master couldn’t bear to lose you so soon and said _yes_ as you sweat and shuddered and cried yourself delirious into the dishrag on your forehead.

When you were well enough, you killed for him, and the communion rites echoed in your ears for days.

So you are in Thanalan, whose scorched soil and formless rocks put it on par with the enthralling scenery of nothing but icy plains. The heat of the sun makes your mail feel like a hot iron, reminding you of that night. But it doesn’t bother you, because their anger burns all the brighter. You know they don’t want to be here in the middle of the desert killing peistes; Twelve know they’ve done similar only too many times.

When the beast comes raring for its pound of flesh, they respond in kind. You watch them thrive, their eyes bright and savage as they take its life for their own. Their adrenaline and heartbeat thrum through you, and you think this is as close to feeling alive as you will get. It’s intoxicating. You praise them when they are finished. They smile. It’s all the more charming when they’ve a good smear of blood on their blade.

The offering has done its job. The mask has slipped and you are privy to a sliver of their true self. You tell them to commune with you.

You remember hearkening to a voice long ago; now it is you on the other side. Drink well of this chalice, this truth. Reach into the abyss and you will find a bottomless pit of tar thick with your sin, but listen closely. _Do you hear me?_ You stand, waiting, heart aflutter.

They don't hear you.

-

It’s not hard, to play the part. Sayings from a past you’ve never had creep around your ankles and wrap around your legs like vines. You’ve got Fray Myste’s uncouth accent and their master’s eloquent words resting on your lips. It makes for a strange combination.

You’re in Thanalan again, and when you suggested it, you almost saw them balk. They’ve had far too much practice keeping their face blank – you know they resent you for this. _Where are the Temple Knights to hunt for sport? Where are the powerless we can save? Why are we carving up the godsdamned wildlife again?_ They crave for the night you met. You’re pleased.

Still, they offer two beasts up to you. Once again, you feel their life surging under their skin and the burn of their frustration. It’s been too long since you last met. You’ve missed them. The axebeaks lay dead at their feet, tongues lolling from their cracked skulls and guts strewn on the ground. They don’t feel satisfied. You smile lightly and tell them to hold onto this feeling, because they will _never_ be satisfied until they face the truth.

On the walk to Drybone, you are sifting through memories that are not your own and you speak from things said to you before. Your master’s voice was gentle as you sat by the light of a dying fire and the scales of your master’s other student were rough and scratchy when you huddled together for what meager warmth you could get at night. You held onto every word and engraved it into your aether, just as they are doing right now.

When you arrive, you tell them to commune once more... at least, you _try_ to.

A hot surge of anger courses through your emptied veins when the miserable wretch comes pleading for help, interrupting your communion. You didn’t ask for work of any kind, and it’s not your job to to save people from their own carelessness. How dare they, _how dare they-!_

...Fine. It’s what you do, every godsdamned time, isn’t it? You’ll see it through.

Aye, you save the bloody pilgrims but derive no particular joy from it. You revel in the slaughter because you can't take pleasure in anything else. Their heartbeat echoes in your ears as the Amalj’aa howl and thrash and curse their name. It only makes it more entertaining. The Lord of the Inferno will have plenty of souls to join his fold tonight.

You’re laughing, grinning mad. _This_ is what you want to see, a confirmation of their identity writ in blood. Their resentment festers, the darkness blooming into runes on their blade. They cleave through the hide of the scaly brutes with ease, cutting down wave after wave of reinforcements.

The beastmen withdraw once you've killed enough of their ranks.

“Better than peistes, eh?” You ask once the dust has settled. They’re smiling, too.

You stand outside the encampment as they catch their breath. You watch in disgust. If they keep doing this, they will die a slave. Once, twice, thrice, hundreds, _thousands_ of times more these sniveling fools will come clamoring, begging for them. And you cannot _believe_ they still have the decency to wipe the blood off - a sharp bark of laughter escapes you, startling them.

“Leave it,” you say. “You’ve nothing to be ashamed of.”

You snort in amusement when they return covered in the fruit of their labors. Isembard practically flees at the sight. Of course he does, because those who know nothing of death do not hesitate to condemn others to it. Did he think you would rescue the pilgrims and escape clean, smelling like a bed of roses? Amalj’aa bleed like everything else does. It shouldn’t be a surprise.

Finally, you are alone. And this time, you actually commune.

...They hear you, but they don’t _hear_ you.

You're perplexed. You've only their best interests in mind. Dying fucking _hurts_. You know this and you know _they_ know this, as much as they feign ignorance. The fear of death kept you alive and it made dying all the more painful. You speak plainly.

“A dark knight accepts that they cannot save everyone ─ that sometimes, they are fortunate just to save themselves.”

You learned this early on, when your heart was raw and tender on a moonless night. You’d buried people before, because you lived in the slums where dragons rained fire upon the citizenry, but this was different. You were supposed to save them with your clunky length of steel and budding darkness. You did not. Instead, you laid them to rest and your fellow apprentice helped you. Your master read the rites while you washed out the dirt caked under your nails, but they were lost to the wind.

“Sacrifice is to renounce that which binds you. To recognize that which matters ─ and forsake all that does not.”

They’re silent when the words reach their ears and heart. You stagger, feeling the aether being reclaimed by them and your form flickering from existence. You're unsure if that is a good or bad thing.

-

You’ve taken to writing in their journal. The warrior forgets. Easily. They forget the rend of flesh, the sickening crack of bone, the scent of burning skin and what it’s like to die. They have Hydaelyn to thank for that, when she plucks them from the aether and sends them on their way as if they hadn't gone through the seven hells and then some.

You know they’re worried they’ll forget everything else, if they can’t even remember their own mortality. That’s why they’re always hastily scrawling in the pages of a tattered little book.

_Do not forget those who you have loved and those you have killed. Do not forget to save the life of someone you do not know, and frankly do not care about. Do not forget to empty some pompous arse’s chamber pot because they were feeling too fatigued to do it themselves that morning..._

The strength of their denial makes your voices seem the same, except that your additions come out sloppier than intended. Your master always had sweeping handwriting, neat script with a single streak of ink. You could barely make your nub of charcoal create something legible on a good day.

You had a hard time learning to read, doubly so for learning to write. Thankfully, the sister who taught you in the Brume’s makeshift orphanage was patient even when you whined about practicing your Eorzean letters. You would much rather be spitting at the nobles who came to ogle the sorry state of the Gates each time a Dravanian attack passed, you explained. She tugged on your ear for that.

Your words come out a bit crooked in comparison, but the warrior doesn’t notice, for how fervently they record everything.

_Heed my warning, before it is too late._

Will they see? You wish they would see.

They aren’t progressing as much as you would like, so you try to nudge them in the right direction. You know it takes some longer than others to hearken to the voice.

That's fine. You're patient. It doesn't bother you.

-

It’s _not_ fine, and you are deeply bothered.

They haven't heard your voice, your cries, your pleas. And they still accept every task given to them by some passing dandy, as if your lessons had meant nothing. You’re disappointed, but they are still eager to please. You can work with that.

“Moraby Drydocks,” you say. That ought to strike a chord.

The air is thick with salt, cloying almost. You stand by the ocean and listen to the waves lap at the shore. You know the setting well. Fray Myste doesn't, having been stuck in Coerthas for most of their life. You think they would have liked the change in scenery.

The warrior arrives with the promise of communion restless within their breast. But you feel something else under their skin prickling, crawling, when their eyes land on where the sea meets the horizon.

You press further, wondering if this is where they will finally understand. They recall the violent tides, the bottomless depths, the iron grip of fear seizing and _suffocating_ them. Leviathan’s gaping maw could have crushed their tiny boat and devoured them with ease. _How does it feel to be sent to your death without so much as a goodbye?_

Yes, that’s the way. This is what you want them to see - _this is what they will bring you without end, if you do not open your eyes. This is their declaration of blood, and you will be the weapon to carry it out._

And then - _and then,_ because the Twelve love you so dearly, they drop another fool onto your lap. Isembard was naive, fearful. What speaks to you now is a sentient pile of goobbue dung.

 _The Warrior of Light! Please save my bloody goods from some oversized rodents because I’m an incompetent imbecile who can't keep a hold on a few measly boxes!_ It's always like this, but you are voracious for something to kill before you commune. You’ll slaughter the qiqirn for him.

They grit their teeth at the sight of their prey. You think they haven't looked more alive until now. The darkness comes easily - a deadly tar pools beneath their sword and the shadows cloak them from claws, teeth, and beastmen spit. The runes vivaciously slither over their skin and blade, only too happy to deliver retribution with each swing. Once again, they are beautiful in their wild dance of death.

The aether is burning up around them from their anger, setting the wellspring inside them alight and making the bloodbath all the more chaotic. The flames lick your aether as well, and you feel yourself fading again when it fuels their fire. Troublesome, but you do your best to cast another spell while ignoring the way your staff slips out of your grasp. The giant qiqirn is babbling something incomprehensible now and the edge of their sword reduces it to naught but a bloody gurgle. His underlings follow suit.

They only embrace the darkness in the spaces between life and death, but they fall far too fast and deep for someone who hasn't acknowledged the abyss they're taking from. The repercussions come soon enough.

Your breath is short and you struggle to stand. The grip on their sword has gone numb and their head pounds with the force of rising to the surface too quickly. You did warn them about drinking of this in excess when they were unprepared. You just didn't know how it would affect you, too. But it is done. You tell them to finish what they started.

Bringing back goods slathered with qiqirn blood doesn't have the same effect on the merchant as it did Isembard. _Oh, no_ \- he has the _nerve_ to demand compensation for his recovered shite, as if they had wronged him by doing exactly as he asked. They can only stare, speechless.

Well, you've got the words for him. The aether _roars_ \- it’s an angry sea around you and you’d think the Lord of the Whorl would have a hard time contending with the crashing waves of your rage. It shakes you, drowns your reasoning in the all-consuming tide. You don’t care for posterity or grace - you tangle yourself with them, and let the venom fly.

Then you’re back - horribly spent, because this sort of hasty communion is taxing when they’ve been deaf to you. The warrior looks confused, doe-eyed, like the fire spat from their lips just came from someone else. But they are satisfied. You watch the merchant cower. You relish it.

You are watching the sea again when they find you. You sigh, deep and tired. _Take care of yourself,_ you want to say. It comes out as, “Let’s run away.”

You know just the place. You’ve heard of lands to the east, of a vast plains not unlike Coerthas before the Calamity. No one will know you there. You won't be the Warrior of Light.

You feel their heart stutter in the confines of their ribs, because yes - _yes_ , that's what they've wanted for days, weeks, _moons_. They want to be free like when they first started traipsing around the continent, before the blessing of the Mothercrystal and primals and scions became part of their life.

And then it _sinks,_ because the fetters have never felt heavier than in the moment they wanted to cast them off. They hesitate to fall. Your communion told you as much.

They cannot go on like this.

-

Because you are so damnably considerate, the pithy amount of aether you borrowed for this charade is starting to dissipate even more. You stagger on your feet, feeling faint. It’s irksome.

They stand before you, waiting to receive your next lesson. You want to go somewhere warm. Somewhere that isn't always gray and bitterly cold. Somewhere you aren't hounded by your past and those of the present entreating your good will.

Somewhere you will know _peace._

They want that, too. Wanderlust always suited them better than anything else. You will say farewell to Eorzea and all of her troubles. You will not miss them.

You tell them to wait by the Gates of Judgement so you can quit this land forever. They call your name and as fate would have it, two more fools are drawn to them, begging for a slave to do their bidding. _Oh, joy!_

You watch them follow, led on a leash and told to kill so easily because _Praise the Fury! The stories of the Warrior of Light’s strength were not exaggerated!_ They listen to the knight prattle on, their head near throbbing from the strain of keeping their darkside from bubbling over, until another comes bearing news from Whitebrim.

Well. If that wasn't enough, the inquisition is now hot on their heels. _After all you’ve done, after all you’ve sacrificed…!_

You seethe. The potent rage of Fray Myste in their last moments eclipses everything else. You know how this will end - you know only _too_ well, what sort of judgement will come. Fray Myste’s final hour was like a collapsing star - dying at its brightest but dying all the same.

_No… no more. Enough._

Long ago you read that those who walked the path were to wade through the nadir and meet their own darkness at the end. You’ve been kind and civil, but no longer. It’s too bright for them to see you, so you know what you must do. You’re partaking in aether like a primal now, drinking deep of their life and love and everything about them you want to protect. It sears your throat raw.

You hold a sword in your rotting hands, not caring when the weathered bone snaps from beneath your gauntlets. You are tired of this charade. You won't let those at Whitebrim do the same to them as they did Fray Myste. _You won't._

You cut down the populace of Whitebrim indiscriminately. Despite constantly being at their beck and call, they want to detain you for being a bloody _heretic_. How's that for justice, eh?! Only Ishgard’s finest bullshite for the realm’s savior!

Just like the Tribunal, you fend off all the Temple Knights that come baring steel, letting the darkness guide you like it did then. You won’t make the same mistake again. They fall, and fall, and fall, just as you did. You can only laugh bitterly into the cold air.

They arrive in the midst of your show, looking horrified. Your gaze bores through them. _This is the truth you have been blind to._

 _DO NOT DENY ME!_ You want them to see. To _feel_. To reconcile with this, no matter what illness it may cause.

Can’t you see? Can’t you see I am doing this for _you?_ Gaze into the abyss and it will swallow you whole - you will take their place and make them relinquish the burdensome light that burns their skin, their eyes, their soul. _All of this ends now._

You misjudge their strength.

You are gasping for breath on the ground because the aether has started to wane, returning to where it belongs. Your vision blurs and you can only focus on the snow beneath your feet.

But they've seen _you_ and they've seen themselves. The mask is undone. You’re howling now, words that reflect the anguish they’ve kept hidden for so long. And still, they will not stand down, a chorus of lies behind them refuting you.

It makes you want to cry. You know them better than anyone else. You know what they want, how they feel. _It’s a farce, all of it._

You accept it. They accept _you_. You ache to the core.

The day needs a hero and that hero is not you. It’s them - the weapon of light, the adventurer with the entire continent and star on their shoulders. You think they may break. They say they are stronger than that. You will hold them to it.

When they smile, you find yourself matching them.

Here’s to another communion.

(This will be the last.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> changing gears a bit here, more headcanons incoming

“O Halone, receive of us this wayward soul, Your lost lamb. Raise them up to Your bosom and grant them succor and peace...” The aged elezen priest closes his worn Enchiridion, adjusting his glasses when they fog up from the sudden gust of Coerthan wind.

They conduct the rites at the place you fell, probably because they're worried the dead body lying in the snow will start moving and attack them again. You snort. There will be no more necromancy of any sort at Whitebrim. At least, not today - you're too drained to do anything else reckless. The warrior mirrors your exhaustion because you didn’t hold anything back. Still, they clasp their hands and bow their head in a momentary prayer, for the knight who left the both of you their memories.

When they take your corpse - _Fray Myste’s corpse_ \- away, you silently apologize for using it so roughly. You don't think they would have minded, though. They would have pissed themselves laughing if they knew their body was still swinging around a sword long after they left it behind.

The warrior is there to continue that legacy for them, because trouble waits for no one, least of all the realm’s savior. You are already suspicious of the nervous knight asking for their audience when his hand periodically itches towards the hilt of his weapon. Their guard is up because _your_ guard is up, even if the sword on their back feels several tonzes heavier than before when they tread through the snowy plains.

They attack you when you’re alone, as expected.

You tell them to _wake up_ , get that sword in your hand, take from the abyss, yes, just like that. Ignore the fear in their eyes because _they_ are the ones who came with the intent to kill. You are merely returning the favor.

You would have been content to continue drawing from Fray Myste’s past like a well, bringing the chalice to their lips and making them drink of the blood spilt by someone before them. It drips down their jowls, thick and sticky and dark when they feel their rage coursing through them again - _just what do these godsdamned Temple Knights think they are doing-_

But when a voice calls out to you, muffled through the glass - you trip over the words of your lesson because it’s too familiar. It shouldn't be.

He is just as you remember him, picturesque in an image they could not find in Fray Myste or you. He is more suited to the title of dark knight, they think, eyes drawn to the monstrous length of serrated steel on his back. Where you were a shadow, he is the pale specter of death bearing judgement.

He is a _friend,_ and someone you trusted with your life. The mention of your name in his voice makes your stir with something both pleasant and unpleasant. The second you take to digest the feeling is enough for the last Templar to retreat with his tail between his legs.

He asks about Fray Myste. They tell him how they came to know you, how you knew each other long before you met, and how you were borrowing Fray Myste’s body for the whole affair. They don't mention how you're still borrowing their memories.

 _I’m right here,_ you want to say. But what good would that do? Fray Myste is dead, and you aren’t Fray Myste.

The reaper clad in weathered steel named _Sidurgu_ tells them to meet him at the Forgotten Knight. You don't miss the way he lingers and unsheathes his weapon when they're out of sight.

-

Times are changing, because they bring a whirlwind with them wherever they go. They can walk through the Gates of Judgement and Arc of the Worthy freely when you had to sneak out under the cover of night.

You see Ser Aymeric de Borel, proud and poised from behind his desk in the Congregation.

You try not to let your disgust seep too thoroughly into their thoughts - a man of diplomatic words, aye. He won’t have his knights kidnapping maidens and slaying innocents under his roof, but the streets of Ishgard are still their hunting grounds.

He offers the warrior asylum in their hour of need, so you can't complain. Openly, anyways. You privately curse his impossibly handsome mien for being so _noble._

You see the Mongrel dancing about the Brume. You see her waving around her swagger and firearms, the same she got from ducking in and out of the manufactory and wagging her silver tongue at the eccentric lordling inside. You tried taking a shot once - she only laughed herself sick when you bruised your arm from the recoil. The steel didn’t feel right in your grasp, you explained. She couldn’t hear you over her mirth.

Luckily, it goes better when Stephanivien hands them the pistol.  

You see the Haillenarte housemaid whose marksmanship gives Hilda a run for her gil, the ever-lauded dragoons perching atop the spires of the cathedral thinking they go unnoticed when all you need to do is glance up, and the shriveled bastard whose arse rests on the Vault’s throne.

The faces pass you by, but this is not your story. You can only hope those who Fray Myste shared their heart with feel the same pieces missing as you do.

-

You are them and they are you.

But when you see the knight and maiden fair, it becomes harder to tell where Fray Myste ends and you start. The memories writhing under the facet of their soul crystal become more restless, and that is never a good thing.

The picture of Sidurgu and Rielle in the shoddily lit tavern makes you feel something other than the rage of a dying knight. _Relief_ \- you want to sink to your knees and thank the Fury they weren’t taken. And that’s saying something, considering Fray Myste never attended anything more than Starlight mass. (...Even then, it was just to unabashedly admire Halone’s breasts on the idol at Saint Reymanaud's.)

 _Their_ legs go weak at the sight, from your sorrow, your anger, your joy. You’d think that would cause nothing but an incoherent noise encapsulating all of that to escape them - you’re lucky they’ve never been one for talk.

The warrior sits across from the duo at their table - it’s too small and Sidurgu’s knees bump the flat of it, making him shift his legs to get more comfortable. He’s close enough to touch now. You recognize the chip on one of his horns, from sparring too hard, and you think the cuirass your master had stashed away fits better on him than it ever did you.

 _Deathbringer_ rests upon his back. Though it was yours, you entrusted it to him the night you left. You're glad it survived the whole ordeal.

“A dark knight needs a sword.” You told him as you slipped your faceplate on and prepared for the worst. You'd attract less attention with a simple claymore than that giant mass of steel. It looked more at home with him, anyways.

The girl named _Rielle_ is silent, like your first attempts at talking to her. You think it a shame, because you had just gotten her to smile.

You listen to Sid chastise them, saying the same things you had tried to make them understand. You also feel a little smug when the bloodied sword is presented to them and their eyes go wide.

When Sidurgu talks about his past, you know it's not something he divulges to just anyone. But they knew Fray Myste in a crooked and diluted sort of way, and you can tell he's desperate. A strong nostalgia strikes you at that moment, another fragment of Fray Myste flickering through the forefront of your thoughts.

When you first met him, you shot your mouth off, like you have a penchant for doing.

“The hells are you? Some kind of Dravanian?” You glared at him from your seat at the table as he stood hesitantly in the doorway. Maybe it was because you weren't feeling so chipper from eating tasteless gruel for days and practically being on your deathbed, but you didn't care.

Ompagne looked stricken when Sidurgu instigated the fistfight. He, unlike your master, knew nothing of mercy. You came away with a bloody nose and several bruises for your trouble, dizzily picking yourself up from the kitchen floor. Your mouth tasted like iron.

“I’m an _au ra_ , you bastard.” The boy spat through grit teeth and bared fangs as he helped you to your feet. “Don’t call me a Dravanian again.”

You don't.

Sid watches them, his gaze the same as the smoldering fires that claimed his home and kin. Can he see you? (Of course not.)

Part of you tries to stay indifferent because this is not yours to carry on. The other is afflicted with a terrible yearning.

And maybe they sense it too, or maybe their heart is too damn soft, because they _stay_. They stay and help Sid and Rielle and finish the mess you've started. You’re thankful to them.

-

Sidurgu rolls his shoulders again, muttering about how he's still sore from being wedged into an airship’s cramped cargo hold. Well, how else were you going to smuggle a full-grown au ra across the Sea of Clouds?

He’s not like the warrior, who can waltz around the Pillars being the ward of a high house. They were even generous enough to provide an ample distraction because the horribly bored knights stationed at the landing couldn't wait to interrogate the first outsider they’ve had in years. One skulking au ra wouldn't be on their radar when Vishap’s slayer personally greeted them.

(And it took every onze of the Warrior of Light’s blessed strength to keep a neutral face when they spotted Sid darting over the ship’s railing with Rielle under his arm. They nodded a little less stoically than usual, trying not to let a snort of laughter escape them.)

You always wondered what it would be like to journey on an airship to the scattered islands hidden over Abalathia. When you were young, you were fond of skirting the city’s walls with other orphans in the Brume, craning your necks over the stone to see the bottomless mists below. And, being children who enjoyed shirking their chores, you spent quite a bit of time slinging rocks and globs of saliva down into the swirling pit of clouds, hoping to hear them hit the ground. (You never did.)

Turns out it was nothing special, being misshapen chunks of rock floating in the air, and only a fat lot of trouble when you were being tracked by Temple Knights as soon as you stepped onto the docks. They couldn't bear to kill a girl under the watchful eye of the Fury, but a change in venue was all they needed to reveal their true colors. Typical.

The warrior cut them down, leaving their skewered corpses in the grass before making the trip back to Ishgard. You should have kicked them down into the sea of endless white when you had the chance.

Given your little excursion, you’d much rather be traveling on foot, like you're doing now. Their merry band of three ( _four?_ ) is crossing the frozen highlands to the Shroud, to unravel the incoherent blathering of a beastman shaman. _A great spirit dwells within,_ the bird said. What kind of great spirit could dwell within a girl of fourteen summers?

Sidurgu’s griping fades until it’s out of earshot - he’s gone to scout ahead at the Observatorium. You wonder if it’s best for him to do that, because the astrologians watching every imperceptible movement of the stars wouldn’t take kindly to anything resembling a dragon showing up on their doorstep. Nidhogg’s roar gave them plenty reason to raise the alarum; Sidurgu needn't be caught in that debacle, too.

That leaves them with Rielle, who seems to share your worry.

“Sid said they would’ve won if they had let them keep their staff.” She says after a long moment when you’re alone, her words muted by the snow.

Sidurgu is a fool. They could have given you a staff or let you fight with the loaf of bread you were caught lifting, and the result would have been the same. The inquisition was out for blood and your head would be garnished on a silver platter for all to see. (Except they didn't even do you that courtesy, dumping your body in the slums after letting nobles spit on it at the Tribunal.)

You know it's because he can't accept it. You don't fault him for it when he's lost the two people he cared for most.

More Templars show up, as if they sense the sudden lull in conversation. Wonderful. Just what you need. The warrior fends them off once more, their swings broad and savage with black pitch in their wake. Normally, you would praise them for gutting Temple Knights like fresh fish, but Rielle is near-cowering when their blade draws too close with each great arc. _Be careful you fool, if they don’t take her, a nick of your steel will._

The only shield a dark knight has is themselves. You’ve the countless scars to prove it, when the mire didn’t bubble up fast enough through your skin and armor to absorb the end of a lance or sword. But you bore the pain without faltering, because that’s what you vowed to do.

They heed your words, adjusting their stance so they can guard her properly. Good. It’s a start. They clean up the rest of the rabble and you feel Rielle’s gaze on them, curious. No doubt she is fixed on the way their form resembles Fray Myste’s when they wield a blade.

Their sword is stained rust with blood and they use a rag from their pack to wipe it off once they’re done. She looks away from them, eyes flitting from the sight of death. That’s twice now they’ve killed in front of her.

Try not to make a habit of that, will you?

-

Stillglade Fane is as familiar to you as it is to them. The smell of moss. E-Sumi-Yan’s soothing voice. The way you would nod off during his sermons and get an earful from the other conjurers.

“That may be why it took you several moons to learn,” Sid pointed out over a steaming bowl of beet soup as you fumbled with the wispy aether of a _cure_ spell between your fingers. You punched him in the arm and nearly made him spill it.

E-Sumi-Yan speaks in that young yet ageless voice of his and Rielle shrinks at his assessment, her gaze set on the ground like she expects the Padjal to bludgeon her over the head with his cane. He doesn't, apologizes for putting her at unease, and suggests she eat something to regain her strength. You think he would have taken better care of her than you ever did.

The Carline Canopy is cleaner and brighter than the Forgotten Knight, smelling of lavender and fresh bread instead of some drunkard’s acrid vomit. It’s packed with adventurers, too, just off the wagon. They don't spare any of you a second glance, save for Mother Miounne, who feels the need to dote on the warrior when they first slip through the doorway. (“Is it just me, or have you grown a few ilms since I last saw you?”) Sidurgu and Rielle take that opportunity to find an unoccupied corner for themselves.

Sid’s frustration claws beneath his skin, finally breaking the surface when he watches Rielle eat her apple somberly. The sweetness would always make her smile, but her gaze is faraway as she thinks about E-Sumi-Yan’s words. Sidurgu asks her why she didn't say anything when the Padjal started rambling of Dravanians and heretics, even speculating that she may possess dragon blood. Rielle is quiet when her past comes gnawing at her heels again.

You knew, of course, when you tried coaxing any semblance of life from her listless expression during your conjury lessons. She told you about the windowless room of stone, the icy bars that hurt to touch, and the endless dark. It filled you with rage, because _she is only a child_ and _she has lived a mere fraction of your summers but has suffered enough for several lifetimes_. You would have kept her in your sun-drenched hideaways if you were able, among the tall grass and cover of aged trees so they could never find her again.

And you knew, when she fell asleep in the forest with her head in your lap, that it was her _mother_ when her tears soaked your breeches. You stroked her hair until the whimpering stopped and her breathing was even.

You didn't tell Sidurgu, because you wanted her to say it herself when she was ready. Seems she never got the chance.

You notice Rielle longingly staring at an eel pie from across the room when Sid says it’s time to go. You are overcome with the urge to snatch it up and give her a taste, decorum and dignity be damned.

The warrior buys one for her before they part ways and watches her eyes grow large as she holds the still-warm box in her hands.

-

Sidurgu teaches them how to better use their sword. It comes in the form of a charging au ra baring steel.

When you sparred with him, he was growing too fast and still adjusting to his center of gravity. His movements were clumsy and awkward as he tried to wield his newfound height. You were a cruel youth, so you knew just how to topple him and send him sprawling with your smaller form. Served him right for eating half your share of dinner while you weren't looking.

Now he's doing the same to them, having grown into his body and the weight of his steel. He swings the blade with a deadly precision and raw strength - and it clashes with the warrior’s own as they struggle to fend him off. You feel a swell of pride. (Still, you think Ompagne’s long limbs were much less forgiving. Damned elezen.)

“I saw you give her the pie.” Sidurgu looms over them and blots out the sun as they lie flat on their back. That makes five times now that he’s bested them in swordplay. “She said she liked it.”

They smile fondly - _or is that you?_ \- even when Sid points the tip of his sword at their heaving chest and says, “Again.”

They grasp the pommel of their weapon laying a few ilms away and assume the appropriate stance one they're on their feet. All you can think about is making another trip to Gridania.

-

Anyx Trine is next, to parley with dragons. The Dravanian forelands look locked in an eternal state of autumn or winter on the brink of spring, you can't decide which. The air is crisp, but not harsh on the lungs. It's a bit like the Shroud, except the wildlife here is significantly larger and more hostile, the chocobos included. ( _Especially_ the chocobos.)

Rielle is looking wistful again when you arrive at the ancient tower teeming with scaly bodies. “Ever since you joined us, we've visited so many new places. I'm sure Fray would've enjoyed it too…”

You don't, because the people of Eorzea enjoy sending the Warrior of Postmail across the land for any meager task they can think of. Fray Myste does, sinking into a sense of calm when they’re away from the city and every cursed thing that comes with it.

You liked when Ompagne would take you to the Shroud and simply let you _breathe._ The forest sat better with you than any combination of stone and steel. It was why you had an easier time learning conjury than Sid, who felt nothing but twitchy when the Gridanians gave him odd looks upon spotting his scales and horns. But scales and horns aren't unusual here, and the dragons only give a curious sniff when you pass by.

The dying dragon says she sees another in Rielle. Third time’s the charm, eh? At least she gives you a straight answer this time. When she exhales, long and faint, it feels ethereally warm, like a part of her soul had left with her breath. She's not long for this world, so you leave her in peace.

Well. Rielle’s got dragon blood. Not enough to transform her into a frothing beast, but enough to impart the fragment of someone's beloved into her aether. You wonder if that is how you seem, woven into their life and thoughts.

Your question is answered soon enough. Midgardsormr chirps by their ear on their way out of Anyx Trine when Sid and Rielle are far ahead.

“I hear them, warrior.” His rumbling voice echoes in their skull despite his diminutive form. “Like the girl, you have something you cannot excise from your being…”

They absently run their hand over the dragonling’s scales when he lands on their shoulder. They feel different from Sid’s, like soft leather instead of crystallized ridges over smooth skin.

“‘Tis not abnormal,” He purrs, curling his tail around their hand. Sid doesn't do that either, despite how he always acts like a wet coeurl. “We all are in possession of such shadows. I only hope you do not let it consume you as it did mine child.”

You scoff. You’ve got manners, contrary to popular belief. You're not going to wrest control from them without asking, as much as it would make things easier on the both of you.

(And, when you see Nidhogg’s shade take the body of his mortal enemy, you're glad you didn't.)

-

Fray Myste makes a piss-poor teacher compared to their master, but they must’ve been decent enough if they could teach someone conjury. Even if that someone had the advantage of Dravanian essence within her.

You mentor them, just like you had before. You’re just a little less corporeal. You tell them how to fight, how to fall into the abyss, and when to flee.

You watch them fall into the earth, watch the blessing of the Mothercrystal pick them up, and watch them do it all over again.

Dragons, knights, heretics, innocents. All of them live and die on a backdrop of stone and snow. They cannot grieve because heroes don't have time to be mortal.

You’re surprised their heart isn’t hollowed out yet. You lie in wait for your chance to nestle in the spaces should they ever need you.

-

Hydaelyn is of the past yet radiant in her light. She’s shared that with the warrior. It’s only natural you’d get an unwanted taste.

The aether is like a gentle stream, wrapping the both of you in time from before.

It’s often mundane things. Fray Myste the knight was little more than a wraith who reaped the souls of the wicked under the cover of darkness.

Fray Myste the cheeky Brume rat had a knack for calling out bluffs in rounds of Triple Triad despite being complete shite at the game itself, knew just where scratching on a preening au ra’s scales would help them molt, and occasionally tried to develop a sophisticated taste for Gibrillont’s supposedly high-class wine. (They could never see how Ompagne could drink the swill without gagging.)

And then it flows in reverse, smothering you into fragments you wouldn’t forget even in death.

The runes on your first ritual circle, smudged from the effort. Molten wax dripping from candles laid around you. Flickering lights from the corner of your eyes pulling you deeper and deeper into the abyss. (You always wanted to know what sort of monster slept at the bottom - you weren't surprised when you caught a glimpse and it looked like you.)

The gentle but firm hand on your shoulder from your master when you held a claymore in your bony grasp. Sid’s tail swatting your legs and wrapping around them when you were forced to share beds. The Enchiridion heavy on your lap as your master read passages to help you sleep, a terrible habit from his days as a Temple Knight. The ichor of a false god on your hands, the smell of it clogging your senses.

“Does Halone know? Does she know what we do?” Sidurgu’s voice was raspy, like he'd been crying. His hands trembled, the blood on his gauntlets still fresh. You stood in an abandoned house in the plains, the remains of something less-than-holy at his feet.

“Halone still loves us,” Ompagne sheathed his sword and let the dark haze around him dissipate. “She loves all of her children. Her fury is our fury - we deliver judgement where the meek are unable to tread. I pray you do not forget this.”

An old man drunk on the vows of his past and still more on the ones of his present, you thought. Halone abandoned us to the prowling wolves among her faithful flock. You didn't say anything because Sid’s hands were steady once more, but none of it was a comfort to you. Coerthas has been nothing but ice for five years, but your heart had been frozen over for much longer.

-

When Hydaelyn wanes, the warrior dreams of a future for this star. Of comrades who hadn't died, of innocents who weren't collateral damage, of enemies who laid down their arms. You get a nasty little taste of that, too.

You dream of a open blue sky, where the air isn’t thin and sharp like Abalathia's Spine, but liberating and fresh. Your fellow apprentice calls this his home away from home and the sun is warm as it blesses the endless plains. You dream of someone who is not you holding a girl’s small hand as they walk and their heart has finally, _finally_ thawed.

“I dreamt of you,” they say into the room, when the sun of a clear Ishgardian morning washes over them. Of course they did. Twelve forbid you have any privacy.

-

You would have thought the involvement of moogles would make this a rather painless outing. You're wrong. You're so very wrong.

“Don't tell me that Fray died for me!” Rielle’s hands are balled into fists at her sides, the last word cracking like her heart. You don't have to look to know the guilt she’s bearing.

Her words cut worse than the sharpest of blades. It's as she said, in her wavering voice - for you, the line between justice and revenge was but a gossamer thread.

You saved her because, _because_ \- you have been nursing a wound from your childhood and all of the blood you’ve spilled could never make it heal. You’re the same as Sid, and you’re sorry. You wish you could tell her that. In her, you saw a chance for redemption, atonement, and someone you knew long ago. But you did love her. You _do_ love her. She didn't know that, apparently.

Sidurgu doesn't speak when he meets her tear-pricked expression. He closes his eyes.

He is always thinking of ways it could have been. Maybe if Ompagne didn't die, he would have known what to do when a girl scared out of her wits takes shelter under his wing. Maybe Rielle could have told him about her mother, and they could have fled. Maybe you would have lived, then. The possibilities are an empty ostinato, echoing in the distance between them.

Maybe, _maybe_ \- he's hurting with loss and has nowhere to put his anger and grief because that's twice now he's lost his family right before his eyes. Just because he's bigger than you doesn't mean his heart has room for all of that. You're sorry for leaving him, too.

When he meets her gaze again, Sidurgu makes two vows: one to stand for her, because she can't stand by herself. Another to stand for you, where you fell.

You didn't realize your absence would leave such a large hole; you were always under the impression that no one would miss you when you were gone. Dark knights didn't live long. The memories beneath the surface of your soul crystal confirmed it.

You told yourself that, and now it sits bitter on your tongue. You’d have no regrets, you said. Fray Myste said a lot of things they didn’t mean.

You can make amends, they say, descending from Moghome and watching the white puffs from the moogles’ trees float into the air. The saturation of wind-aspected aether makes them fly higher and higher until they're out of sight. You are silent.

-

You take them up on that offer. You dig deep into the memories of Fray Myste and tell them to focus on your voice. They trust you, as they did since you met one fateful day in the Brume.

The light reflecting off the ice is near-blinding when you arrive at your lovely corner of the highlands. You do not see a girl and her mother. You see a girl and a lunatic of a woman with a sea of Temple Knights behind her. (By the gods, did she bring the entire Congregation with her? No matter. You’ve had worse with less for company.)

Sidurgu snarls, splattering red on the ground when he runs another Temple Knight through. You always liked when he got that look on his face - feral, deadly, and beautiful. As for Rielle, you couldn’t be more proud. She holds her wand in the way you taught her, remembering how to breathe and let the aether flow through her. It’s damned impressive for a girl who is faced with her own reaper. You regret dying, but you don't regret dying for her.

You don’t forget your place, still guiding the warrior through the steps of a practiced bloodbath. They pull the shadows around them and engrave them into their steel, wielding the darkness as you once did. You praise them, and they allow themselves a slight smile in the midst of it all.

You think it strangely comforting, how all the pieces you left behind have been laid in front of you like this. You know they’ll be fine without you - your dear friend, your precious charge, and your blade taken up by someone else. You couldn’t ask for more.

Ystride is screeching like a harpy now, sending the last of her men to die on the length of their sword. She runs out of bodies soon enough and is left with only the sound of her own frenzied cries. _Don't you see, you fool!? The Fury wills it! The Fury wills it!_ Sidurgu brings Deathbringer to her neck, prepared to steep it in blood once more. The eye near the hilt glows eerily, as if hungry for the final swing.

...He hesitates. You wouldn’t have. You’re glad it’s him and not you, when Rielle cautiously approaches her mother. The gods are unkind by nature and they don’t care for little girls who have dragon blood. It’s up to you to do so, when her mother rejects her.

She offers one final prayer, clasping her hands and bowing her head. The ever-present winds of Coerthas have gone still, as if to prevent her rites from being swept away. “O Halone, receive of us this woman, Your humble servant. Raise her up to Your bosom and grant her glory everlasting…”

It is a wonderful spray of crimson, when Ystride de Caulignont is finally judged. Her mother’s head is as good a parting gift as any.

 _The flame in the abyss._ You understand it. Intimately. Better late than never, you suppose. Sidurgu, too. Deathbringer had long been tempered in a sea of blood but the fire inside reforges it into a sword to protect. The warrior’s soul crystal stirs at that, and they take it into their palm. It burns with someone else’s heart, a new technique breaching the surface of the stone and finding their way into the warrior’s aether.

“...You fight like them.” Rielle says when it’s all over, her breath forming white puffs in the air. Her eyes are drawn towards their soul crystal. “Fray’s in there, aren’t they?”

And in a way, you are. The warrior nods, because while she's not completely right, she's also not completely wrong. Rielle asks if she can have it for a moment. You fear for what may happen if she touches it - if she’d become _corrupted_ and _tainted_ as well, but all you recieve is her warmth when she offers a small prayer for you.

“Take care of them for me.” She smiles at that, a sight you haven’t seen in a long while.

You consider yourself forgiven.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> errr i'm not sure i'm entirely satisfied with this, but i'm going to chuck it into the void anyways ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 
> 
> thanks for sticking with me for this wild ride - originally this was just a way to record my take on the questline/put my bottomless pit of headcanons to use, but if you enjoyed it too, i'm glad you did!

Rielle and Sidurgu look happier than when you last visited. 

Rielle perks up when they step down the stairs of the Forgotten Knight, immediately forgetting the conversation she had been having with one of Gibrillont’s chefs when she jumps from her seat at the counter and into their arms. You wrap your arms around her, are relieved she isn’t trembling and near-bone like when you first met, and wonder if she’s gotten an ilm or two taller while you were away.

Sidurgu missed them too, but of course he can't just say it. He waxes poetic, as if they need another bard singing their accolades, then suggests they take a tour of Ishgard with him, just in case there is a stray cutthroat or armed zealot in need of slaying. Still grim and dark as always, you see.

Rielle nudges them with one elbow, snickering when Sid leaves to fetch his sword. “...If you ask me, it's just an excuse to spend time together.” 

They quirk a brow, their finger slowing from where it was idly tracing a circle of runes into the table.

-

Ishgard holds a lifetime for you, and what may as well be another lifetime for them. They walk through the memories and see  _ him _ out of the corner of their eyes with each step on stone.

There’s someone else here. You shouldn’t be surprised, honestly, considering everything. But unlike you, who has the leftover memories of someone else, he is potent shards of grief given form. It’s hard to watch him.

He’s crying now, babbling of loss and pain and emptiness through hiccuping breaths. His tears fall into the abyss, making ripples in the depths. He asks them if it hurts - all the pain, the loss, the grief. (Of course it does. What a foolish question to ask.)

He has something to tell them, something he wants them to  _ see. _ He takes what you didn’t and rises to the surface.

He is like you when you first met; a heart breaks in twine and he is half of it made solid. He stands before them at the Last Vigil, pleading, apologizing. (And oh, that is only the first of the endless apologies he has to offer.)

He introduces himself as  _ Myste  _ and Sidurgu bristles at the name. The warrior’s throat closes when his pale blue eyes meet theirs. 

This cannot end well.

-

Sidurgu has the right of it. You like to think some of your good sense rubbed off on him, and that includes being wary of little boys who steal soul crystals and conjure ghosts from someone else’s past.

Rielle isn't as cautious. You think it's because the fear in his eyes reminds her of herself. And probably because she's desperately wanted a friend her age - Sidurgu acts more like a mother hen than a partner in crime.

The warrior is the least prudent, because when you see it happen, you know exactly what races through their thoughts.

Maybe they could be absolved. Could Ysayle and Haurchefant and Minfilia and everyone else forgive them, for everything they've done? Would the burden be bearable, then, if they soothed the hearts of those they left behind? 

Hydaelyn doesn't answer. She is a mother who never held them close and told them it would be all right. They've been left to curse her name with every weight thrust upon them, all while divine light refracts through her, keeping them alive, alive,  _ alive. _

(And do they really deserve that, when those who fell by their side aren’t?)

Ignasse is gone, just like before. He joins the rest of the swirling winds outside of Falcon’s Nest.

They reclaim their aether in a slipshod communion and brush the last of a dying flame with their blade. It tastes light and sweet, like coming home to a warm fire and ringing laughter when the eternal winter was cold. And then it fades as quickly as it had come and they realize -  _ this _ is what they've taken in one fell swoop of their steel. They quickly swallow down the last of the sweetness, so it no longer sticks to their palate as a bitter reminder.

Myste begs them to stay, to grant succor to those who fate denied. He looks at them with those big, doleful eyes, staring right into their soul.  _ He knows.  _ It's impossible to refuse him.

_ Four times, _ he says. _ Then they will be whole. _ In the east, you think dryly, that is an ill omen.

It is anything but auspicious for Sid, who despairs at the thought of being responsible for not one, but  _ two _ children. He always strived to follow in your master’s footsteps - he just didn't think it would entail becoming an impromptu guardian, too.

Sidurgu sighs and says he needs a nap, or a drink. Or both. 

Well. Don’t we all.

-

Vidofnir’s blood had long been washed from the emblem carved into Falcon’s Nest, and they suppose that is a fitting mirror to how the hamlet has been getting along; the wound of a thousand years still lingers, but it is slowly healing.

Her people are finally at rest, and they are in good spirits, both metaphorically and literally when you meet Sidurgu again. Ishgardian knights and villagers share drinks and hopes as they rebuild, looking forward to a day where they no longer fear scalekin from the skies. He’s made himself comfortable in one corner of the lively tavern, dozing off while Rielle offers Myste a sip of her hot cocoa.

“Oh, thank the gods, an _ adult. _ ” He says when they find him, lowering his feet from where they were propped on the table. Rielle sticks out her tongue at that, and his lips curl upwards for a fraction of a second before turning to the warrior.

The boy can’t find anyone to help here, so they make for the Dravanian forelands. 

Pilgrims pass through the forest bearing bouquets of flowers, former heretics and former zealots alike. They travel to Anyx Trine, to offer prayers and a chance for hope. To ask for forgiveness, even, when they see knights bearing swords and lances and bows coming to pay respects to their enemies’ kin.

(If only it was that easy…)

Tailfeather is flourishing when they arrive. Traders and adventurers now brave the wilderness, bringing with them goods and stories that find their way around the encampment. Some seek work in the forelands while others are headed towards Idyllshire. Sidurgu doesn’t care for the influx of foreigners - he’s only glad they don’t speak in hushed tones and point at him like he’s a scaled spectacle.

Chocobo chicks run around Rielle’s ankles and lightly nip her fingers before finally settling back into their mothers’ nests. She smiles at that, running a hand over their downy bodies when they're curious enough to approach her.

“They don't bite,” One hunter says, brushing the feathers of a monstrous bird that has its eyes closed in delight. He's proven wrong when you hear Sid curse, holding his pecked hand.

The warrior’s own chocobo meanders around the settlement, wary of the wild ones in the forest but still taken with the flock in the encampment. They remember a man who loved the horsebirds as much as he did them, a man who grinned as he let them coddle his favorite steed and laughed when it nibbled their hair. They carry his smile with them, keeping it in their heart like his last words.

Myste shares his eyes, but not his mirth. He stays close to their side, nervously scanning the area as they ask the trappers who have not yet set off to collect their kills. 

The familiar face of Marcechamp greets their duo, startling him, and the image of Ysayle comes to their mind. Did she look like that too, when she first came to the forelands? Fearful, with the forest breeze threading through her hair? Touched by frost, but warmed by the fire in a hunter’s cabin?

“Ysayle always hoped there’d be peace again ‘twixt man and dragon, an’ it's a damn shame she's not around to see her dream comin’ true…” His smile is slight and bittersweet from across the table. 

Myste’s expression turns solemn at that. They remember flowers from someone else laid at Azys Lla instead of Anyx Trine, where diamond dust scattered into the air when it met flame. (How she fell from the skies…)

They are pulled out of their reverie when Marcechamp offers them a drink and Tailfeather’s signature jerky. “Least it gives us more work to do. Keepin’ the road clear of beasts for travelers isn't so bad. They come bringin’ fancy ale from the city, anyways.”

They take a sip from the tankard, savoring the warm yet bitter sting when it runs over their tongue. Myste only stares forlornly at his strip of cured meat. Marcechamp ruffles his hair before standing up to collect his belongings from the barracks. “You’ve got to eat, lad. Grow up big an’ strong so the forest chocobos won't swallow you in one bite.”

They regroup with Sidurgu, who has had more than enough of being antagonized by giant birds. Rielle tells them of a prisoner who suffers at the hands of the Ishgardian justice you are so fond of, and when they lay eyes on her, they go still. 

No one is beyond redemption, Myste says quietly. Not those who wronged you wielding a misguided hope, or a fit of desperate revenge when they couldn't figure out any other way to sew the wound shut. They have to believe that, or…

_...Or? Just what do you believe will come of you?  _

“...Thank you,” Lowdy’s lips curve into a smile in spite of the pain in her expression. She leaves with her half of a heart, facing an uncertain future but holding her head high.

They take back their aether and what is left of her beloved. Hers is a fragile thing with misshapen wings. It tastes like frost on the windows and an open door, letting the cold in. It spreads the feathers it has left and takes to the frigid air, aimless but always searching for the warmth of the sun. They listen to the number of wingbeats until they can't hear them anymore.

Myste sheds the tears she didn’t, because he couldn’t make her whole with the illusion of the part she was missing. You should have known it wouldn't do anything for her, other than draw forth the words she's kept for so long within her breast.

Perhaps an overdue catharsis is enough, for some. But Myste thinks otherwise and Rielle rubs soothing circles into his back. You leave with the sound of his watery voice in your ears.

-

You can't believe what comes out of Sidurgu’s mouth. 

“And so… for lack of a better idea… I'm thinking it's time to pay another visit to those furry little shites in the Churning Mists.”

Maybe your master was right, after laying Sid low every time he came recklessly barreling when they sparred - the fool is practically a  _ masochist _ , always seeking out things that will inevitably bite him in the arse. He lets out a groaning sigh of his own not a breath later, as if he already regrets suggesting it.

Rielle’s eyes light up at the prospect, even if she’s confused as to why Sidurgu would want to willingly subject himself to the company of moogles. You can't very well take your words back now, can you?

The moogles are thrilled to see Rielle again, less so Sid when he is already glaring a hole through Moggie’s furry forehead. They waste no time in ushering their group into Moghome, the furry bastards already fawning over Rielle.

They spin her around and teach her a step dance while they toot on their horns and pluck their miniature harps. Moghome echoes with the commotion, all the moogles aflutter as they sing along.

_ My dear Rielle, can you tell? _ __  
_ On your head I’ve cast a spell! _ __  
_ Twirl once, twice, with aplomb, _ _  
_ ___Then you’ll find you've grown a pom!_

Sid watches with thinly-veiled disgust, because they're  _ moogles, _ but holds his tongue because Rielle hasn't smiled this much in all the time you’ve known her. Still, he swats them away when they try to get him to join, keeping to his corner to brood. And to keep his moogle-punching urges in check.

Myste shies away from the moogles - the warrior doesn’t know what they would’ve done if he was as taken with them as Ysayle was. Her poised expression melted, her heart of ice in name only when her eyes glittered at the sight of their fluffy coats. If they had the chance, they would have liked to visited the Churning Mists with her again, or shown her the ones hiding in the Shroud.

The boy journeys to a secluded corner of Moghome, standing near a cliff and taking in the sights of a pilgrimage they once made. The wind keeps making Myste’s silvery locks whip against his face when they find him. Rielle makes him sit on a rock before trailing a hand down the length of his hair.

“I didn’t know you could do that.” Sidurgu says. He'd seen Rielle braid her own hair, but it was never as long and thick as Myste’s.

“My hair used to be long, too. My... mother would braid it for me, before she cut it.” Rielle pauses, focusing on the long strands in her grasp when another breeze picks up. When you first met, her hair was choppy and short, like it had been hurriedly hacked off with a knife. You combed it out in one of the Forgotten Knight’s inn rooms, patiently untangling every knot while you asked her for her name.

She is silent for a long moment, as if sharing the same memory before she tosses Sid a sideways glance. “Don’t ask me to do yours, though. Your bedhead is  _ horrid.” _

“Hey-!”

Myste lets Rielle fuss with his hair and gazes upwards at the floating stones dotting the skies. The warrior sighs in relief when he looks a little less like Ysayle with the braid thrown over his shoulder.

-

If you were alive, you’re sure the resulting  _ smack _ from your gauntlet slapping the front of your barbut would have scared away all the wildlife in the vicinity.  _ Including _ the three-headed goobbues. 

The blunt end of Ompagne’s sword collides with Sid’s ribs, where his stance leaves an opening only your master could see. He held back during your training sessions so it only left a bruise at worst, but this time, you hear the  _ crack  _ beneath layers of steel.

You gasp sharply when Sidurgu falls to his knee, a cry of pain bitten through his teeth.  _ This is your shade, Sidurgu. Are you telling me you can't win against this old bastard even in death? Why in the seven godsdamned hells are you on the swivin’ ground?! _

Myste and Rielle watch from afar - Myste’s expression is twisted into a grimace and Rielle’s hands cover her mouth. Ompagne’s gaze lands on her.  _ He’ll come for Rielle next. Don’t let him. Don’t you dare let him. _

They don't. The warrior bests him and you think it may or may not have to do with the way you catch Sidurgu fixed on their smile or the arc of their sword.

“Fray would be proud,” Ompagne chuckles as he catches his breath. Their heart jumps at that. 

He's right, you say. I  _ am _ proud of you. Proud because you’re taking on so damn much and bleeding out for what you think is right, even if others curse you to the seventh hell and back for it. They don't respond.

No, they're stuck on the swirling cloud of aether - _ their aether  _ \- dancing in front of them. They hesitate to take from this one.  _ Go on _ .  _ It's yours as much as it is mine. _

It is the ebb and swell of the black tide cradling you and dipping you below the surface, a feeling of wading through mire and the futile struggle against its smothering embrace. It is the feeling of rising above the tide, dripping with tar and being born anew and baptized in a flame of your own. It is the feeling of being safe in the dark, where it hides obsidian scales and strange eyes and prayers to dead parents and the blood on your hands. It is the feeling of being  _ loved,  _ of that ugly, charred thing between your lungs being healed gently until it blooms again. It is everything at once.

It is Sidurgu’s, and it nearly sends you reeling with the force of it. Their chest aches for a father they never knew yet one you knew well.

Sid aches as well, in more ways than one, but he seems satisfied having come to terms with another truth he’s known all along. At least Myste isn't crying again.

Your resident nanny bears fresh wounds and you almost want to give him another one on the crown for being such an idiot. Rielle is weaving aether into his hide as he sits on a stump at Moghome, using a staff the moogles gave her to channel her aether. The shape of it is wrong because the sentient balls of karakul wool are better at singing and slacking than they are conjury; Rielle can’t get much from it before wearing herself out. 

Because he refuses to accept help from the moogles, Sidurgu will have to recover like a normal person. You watch in amusement when his expression slips from disgusted to horrified.

He lets out a hissing breath when he tries to make himself comfortable for the joyous times ahead. “Be a dear and punch a moogle for me, would you?”

They do punch a moogle, but it's out of reflex rather than malice when one sneaks up behind them. You think Sidurgu would be pleased anyways.

-

“So much sadness…” Myste says, “So much strife...” 

They make a trip to the ruins near Zenith while Rielle tends to Sid’s wounds. When they reach the aetheryte, they lay down a bouquet of their own, wondering if Hraesvelgr is circling around the ancient walls to see two mortals treading in his domain. Sohr Khai sits beyond the veil of clouds and Myste still feels the eternal sadness humming through each breeze carried their way. He sighs, because a thousand years of war is far too long. (A thousand years of suffering, a thousand years of death…)

As if it is any different from the rest of the star. Suffering and death are a fact of life. No one is spared from it, not heroes of blessed light saving the continent and faraway lands, and definitely not sowers of chaos who surrender to the abyss, even if they are both people you hold dear. Your thoughts drift back to your master, whose shade was as elegant and proud as you remember him. He was like that up until the moment you realized he was dying.

“I never thought I would live this long. And if I did, I always thought I would regret doing so.” Ompagne’s voice was little more than a whisper when he turned towards you, his hair laid out in messy waves on his pillow. “I’m glad I was proven wrong. I’ve been blessed with two wonderful disciples and they’ve grown into such fine knights.”

Ah, the old man was getting sentimental again. But you humor him, because he's fading. You sat at his bedside and changed the towel on his forehead, wringing the water into a basin at your feet. Not that it would do any good; it was his time. The sheen of sweat on his face was from his heart - his heavy, heavy heart full of love and grief that was now failing him. Your conjury couldn't fix something like that.

Sidurgu watched you intently from the other side of the bed, listening to the water drip from your cloth.

“We could never beat you, though.” You replied wryly. “You’ve handed our arses to us more times than we can count.”

Your master wheezed a laugh at that. “That I have. But in time, you will surpass me. I know you will.”

“I don't want you to leave us.” Sidurgu blurted, and suddenly he was twelve summers old again and clinging to Ompagne's long fingers while watching his home burn. Your master gave a long sigh, as if he wished he hadn’t said something that would make it even harder to leave the both you behind.

“...In your darkest hour, in the blackest night… think of me, and I will be with you.” His smile was wan yet fond. “Always.”

He offered you one final riddle that took your entire life and then some to understand, then closed his eyes. The next morning, he had passed peacefully. You hoped he wasn't in any pain. (And thinking on it now, you're glad he didn't die a glorious death at the hands of those he once knew as comrades, as much as he thought it would come to that.)

You and Sidurgu buried him. Your hands went numb from digging through the snow, because Coerthas was no longer green with your master’s favorite plants and only a bleak, soundless white.

(A great Dravanian fury, the priests and astrologians called it. The dragons dropped a giant egg bearing the Twelve’s reckoning onto all of Aldenard, but instead of raining hellfire from scalekin spit, it stirred up the wind and ice and damned you all to a prison of frost. Oh, the irony.)

You lit a lantern and sat at the kitchen table with your heart closed, reading tomes from your master’s collection that you've thumbed through an infinite number of times. 

“Fray.  _ Fray. _ ” You pretended not to hear Sidurgu, too busy filling the gaping hole in your chest with the memory of your master's voice. He read the words to help you learn, and teased you for reading for hours on end when you could finally grasp them yourself. 

You didn't know what to do other than stuff the remnants in your ribcage before you forgot. You had to do  _ something, _ or else the flood would spill from your heart and eyes and you disliked crying because it was a damn  _ waste  _ of the ale you just quaffed down before braving the frozen wastelands with a broken shovel in hand. 

Sidurgu was hunched over in the study when you found him, a scrawling circle of runes drawn in chalk and charcoal on the floor. Ompagne always told him to get better at that, because his writing was crooked and clumsier than yours. You had to know the runes before weaving your aether into their shape, he explained to you as the script slithered across the skin of his hand.

“Your runes look like shite.” You walked over to him, finally trusting your voice to be steady. 

“What are we going to do now?” Sid’s eyes glowed bright, burning holes through you and searching for answers you didn’t have. “What would Ompagne want us to do?”

“Hells if I know.” You shrugged, then sat on the other side of the circle on the ground like you did when you were younger. You noticed he looked like he’d been rubbing his eyes too much. “The old man was always enigmatic.”

You were both adults, so it wasn't like you couldn't survive on your own. It just hurt a bit more to think about. You picked up a nub of chalk and helped him learn the shapes of the letters until it was dark outside.

-

You travel to a land with people who look like Sidurgu, except they didn’t have to grow up hiding their eyes and scales and horns. Yet somehow, you think he would look more out of place there than he does in Ishgard.

They buy a dish from Reunion before leaving, a length of skewered meat whose aroma is wondrous. The cook calls it  _ shorlog _ and tells them it is good for warriors who are recovering. Sid’s going to need all the help he can get, you think. 

It is dusk when you return. You visit Moghome and sit next to him on the stump he has claimed as his. The moogles are wise enough to give him a wide berth because he’s still stewing over his predicament, effectively frightening them off with the way his face is contorted into a permanent frown. It’ll stick like that, you know. Though you suppose it might be too late for him.

They take the wad of cloth out of their pack, unwrapping it and revealing the seasoned meat inside. The smoked scent is still strong, having only been in their bag for a day at best. Sidurgu’s mouth waters at the smell and he scarfs down the food because he's sick of eating roots and kupo nuts. (“Why the hells are they called kupo nuts? They're just normal bloody nuts.”)

Halfway through the skewer his chewing slows, and he swallows. “Where’d you get this? It tastes like… like what my parents used to make.” His voice dies in the back of his throat. You know he's thinking of his people, his mother and father, his home.

They tell him of the Azim Steppe, and you find the ghost of longing in his eyes before he finishes his meal.

“It’s not that I wasn't happy to see my master, but I wonder…” His voice is low, to not wake Rielle and Myste who are now asleep in the moogles’ wooly nests. “Would I have been able to see  _ them _ , instead of him? Could I show them that I lived?”  _ And apologize for when they didn’t, _ is what the space afterwards says.

They are silent at that. So are you.

Sidurgu sighs. “Sounds a little selfish of me, doesn't it? I don’t think I could even remember their faces.” 

He told you that, once. That he’d lived in Ishgard for so long he couldn’t remember anything about his home. He remembered his mother’s gentle hands grooming his wild hair, his father’s sturdy shoulders when he got too tired to continue walking and had to be carried and how they sang to him in a language he had yet to learn but long forgot.

_...Everything I have done, I have done for my mother and my father.  _

His vow carries through the quiet of the night until he makes a point to inform you how uncomfortable it is sleeping on a stump.

-

The path is fraught with death. The death of your enemies, the death of innocents, the death of those you hold dear, and the death of your heart. Dark knights are a rarity, given the profession, but those you knew had naught but their own suffering to show for it.

“And then, one day, I couldn't remember the first one's face - I had forgotten the face of the first boy who gave his life for me.”  You listened to your master recount the tale of why he forsook his sigil and shield - why he, one of Halone’s bloody beloved soldiers, would choose to cast it all away and adopt two children to boot.

At first you thought he was full of shite - just what could a Temple Knight understand? If he took you in out of pity, you told him, you didn’t want any of it. But he raised you and Sid with all the love he gave his boys, albeit tinged by sadness, and loved you more than you ever deserved. At times you hated him for it, for loving you so damn much, but in his eyes you always saw the burden, the guilt, and thought that maybe you weren't so different, a bastard orphan from the Brume and noble knight.

You grew up with the same nagging feeling in the back of your mind, one that occasionally slipped through the cracks of your armor and made you wonder why you wore it in the first place.

You prayed for a girl who died at your feet. You prayed to the gods you cursed with every breath as you tried to feel for her pulse and breath, as if her life hadn’t spilled onto the ground, making your scuffed knees red and sticky. You prayed the monster who did this - one who claimed to walk in Halone’s grace even as his sword sunk into her chest - would burn in the seventh hell. Though of course he wouldn't, because he was enjoying a glass of mulled wine and sleeping well knowing another heretic had been put down within the Holy See’s walls.

And when they didn't answer your prayers you decided you’d have your vengeance even if it cost you your life. You thought you’d stop praying after that.

You didn’t.

You recounted litanies and hymns from the Enchiridion in your circle of candles and you didn't know  _ who  _ you were praying to this time because Halone never listened but you prayed regardless. For those you could not save, for them to offer a sliver of forgiveness so they stopped plaguing your thoughts and dreams with the same sticky red and still lungs. 

You did it all discreetly - but not discreetly enough, because Sidurgu found his way to the corner of the house you deemed yours and sat across from you, closing his eyes and doing the same. Only the flames framed his face in the dark and you watched him, wondering who he was remembering. The fire around you couldn't cleanse and close either of your wounds.

He didn't know why he survived, he said. If he had tugged on his parents’ hands a little harder when the Temple Knights at the gates turned them away, they wouldn't have died on a plains away from home. If he had told them to go south, to the Shroud, they could have settled in Gridania instead of makeshift yurts with bloodied soil. 

(If blackened steel had come but moments later, maybe he could have joined them instead of seeing the dead behind his eyelids.)

He couldn't even remember the gods his parents prayed to and prayed to Halone, hoping that she would be enough.

You know what they are feeling, why Myste’s sorrow is so deep. It is the same one that those you knew were haunted by.

Why hold a sword when it would only leave you steeped in loss and sin? Why learn the dark arts when it would only save yourself? Why walk in Hydaelyn’s light when only darkness awaits those beside you?

It was always  _ you _ that survived. You shattered the lives of so many and it only left you shattered in turn. Was there truly any reason for any of it?

-

...But that is the reason, isn't it? You survive, you cannot save everyone, but you still fight to save who you can. 

Your master saw two children soaked in the same blood spilled from his boys, except they hadn't yet fallen in the snow, and gave them a chance to live for him instead of die like the rest.

You saw a girl caught in a cage with the same dead eyes you saw in your sleep, except she was alive, and you could save her and give her a life someone you knew long ago never had. Her smile is now as radiant as the sun and you are glad you lived to see it.

The burden is a reminder of the past and why you fight - no more, no less. Their steel is to protect those who are still living and breathing, because if they don’t raise their blade in their defense, who will? You suppose that is why your soul crystal resonated with them, because every dark knight who held it before had the same belief.

They've almost forgotten that. It's time to remind them.

-

They’ve bled on soil far from home, fought in wars when no one else would, and have borne the scars for it all.

It grows heavier by the day. You lurk quietly in the shallows, waiting to catch them in your arms when they fall. Yours is not a siren song, but the raw truth - they are carrying far too much, and no one’s heart is strong enough for that.

Myste is proof of it, where all the excess grief went. He is anxious to leave and heal another.

“Stay safe, okay?” Rielle clasps his hands, blinking in surprise when Myste’s fingers are like ice.  _ Like the dead _ .

“Are you cold?” She asks, squeezing his hands tighter. At the warmth of her palms he allows himself but a moment of indulgence, then pulls them out of her grasp, as if he had done something shameful. You know what he is thinking - you cannot forget or forgo the burden no matter how many you have saved along the way. He isn’t deserving of her warmth because those he fervently prays for have none left to give.

The two of them leave Rielle and descend from Moghome. He laces his fingers together, still watching the skies.

-

A man’s memories cannot outlive him - you are the exception to that, you think with a dry laugh.

Gallien dies. Houdart fades and he takes his song with him. The last note is swallowed by the arid Gyr Abanian air.

You watch Myste’s simulacrum dissolve and his expression grow increasingly unhinged. (No, no, no! You were supposed to make it home! You were supposed to absolve us of this awful, awful guilt!) He wrings his hands, then takes a shuddering breath before telling them to reclaim what is theirs.

They take another piece of their aether back, the tendrils flowing back into their crystal.This time it is a broken, lumbering thing that is crawling on the ground with clumsy limbs. It wants to go home, to the scent of smoke, to tales around a fire, to the promise of freedom, to the bright sun under a vast blue sky. It tastes like hope, and it tastes like regret. You know the both of them well.

And it sings to them, before Bloodstorm, in an anthem they’ve heard in the hoarse throats of the people they’ve saved, and from the trembling voices of those they could not. It sounds more like a requiem now, in Myste’s melancholy tones.

Why didn't it work? Why couldn't we make them whole? Why couldn't we grant him succor in his last moments?

He looks like he's about to cry, but you know it's not anything to mourn. They've slain enough primals to know that nothing can be sustained on illusions alone. Be ready, damn you. Be ready. He does not understand, and it is his willful ignorance that is the most dangerous. Do not seek solace in a lie. You know better than that.

Something will go wrong and it falls to you to pick up the pieces. It always does.

-

Myste digs deep for phantoms from their past, reaching into the abyss and pulling out handfuls of writhing tar - it grows and grows into the image of the monstrosities they've killed. 

“Can you even remember why you came here? Can you even remember how many you killed? How many lives shattered, how many stories ended?” Myste looks at them with pleading eyes as ghosts stand before him. “Upon the surface of the crystal are carved the sins of dark knights past… and yours are beyond counting. Beyond fathoming. _ Without end.” _

Don't you see? They can be whole, when we’ve torn them asunder! He is burning with the desire to reconcile, to be at peace so badly, but how can he ever hope for it when the faces pass one by one before him in the abyss, reminding him of every life they've taken? It hurts… oh, how it hurts. But fear not - this is how we can atone. I am doing this for you, for  _ us.  _ For every soul you have scarred or sent to the endless oblivion. Aether swirls about him, for this is his sole recourse.

The fallen forms of Sid and Rielle add to the guilt, making it grow ugly and twisted. Look what you've done, look what you've done! Woe betide those who stand with or before the Weapon of Light, for they are only promised misfortune and death in your radiance. Whether they die by your blade or by your side, it makes no difference - a sea of blood lies in your wake. Your sword to protect has brought their end again and again. It is only a matter of time before you are alone - just you, and the memory of your sin.

You needn’t worry. Just trust me. You will never have to say goodbye to your loved ones. You will finally be at rest. You need only ask.

The warrior has been holding steady so far, but they can't take anymore of this. Not alone, anyways.

_ You need me! YOU NEED ME!  _ You're clawing from the inside like a mouthful of glass,  _ Let me out, damn you. I can end it all!  _

They hear you. They close their eyes, fall into the deep black where the flame burns brightest, and they meet you. It's been a while. You greet them like an old friend.

They don't give you what you want, but they do give you what you need. A compromise, if you will.

You take Fray Myste’s form and you wield it like a weapon. You are content to use conjury like you had before, but Sidurgu’s voice calls out to you, this time clear as day.

“A dark knight needs a sword. Take mine.” Deathbringer sinks into the earth before you, waiting for you to pull it from its sheath like tales of boy kings coronated by their blade. You let your lips curl into a thin smile because Fray Myste would have smiled and the lingering sentiments in your semi-corporeal breast are not _ always  _ terrible. 

You pull it out of the ground and find it fits snugly in your hands. You point the end at Myste. The eye near the hilt feels as though it is rolling and throbbing in its socket, as if it knows what will come. A house divided cannot stand - they of all people should know that. 

They raise your blade and you fight. Together.

Myste crumples to the ground and falls to his knees. He is searching for redemption, even after all this time. You tell him plainly - the dead cannot forgive you, but you can remember them. That is how they live when they’ve no breath in their lungs and pulse in their heart. That is how they treasure your prayers when they've no eyes or ears to receive them. He still wishes to hear the words, so you say them.

“Listen to my voice. I forgive you.” The same forgiveness that healed you when Rielle held you, when the warrior accepted you. Myste’s heart breaks, then mends.

His fruitless crusade has come to an end, and with it, the last of his aether. He also gives you a potent dose of secondhand embarrassment before departing.

“For who else could I love but you?” He meets the warrior’s eyes, a smile finally upon his face.

Still, you echo the sentiment. You love the boy full of sadness and hope named Myste and the warrior with a halo of divine light, even if they cause you nothing but trouble. You love them as much as you love the girl named Rielle, your fellow apprentice named Sidurgu, and the knight named Fray Myste who left you with their scattershot memories. All of them, you take up your sword for.

You guide him back to the cradle of the abyss.

-

The Forgotten Knight is as you left it - warm, dim, and something close to home.

You think Sidurgu of the Obsidian Heart needs to work on his flirtations.  You snort when he stumbles over his words of appreciation, muttering the last of it into his drink.  _ Friends _ , he says. Just say what you mean, you oaf. You know he's been staring at them like a starved man stares at one of Rielle’s eel pies.

They offer a humble thanks and say they'll be sure to visit when they can. Sid’s tail flicks in interest at that. Rielle’s laughter is like the chime of a bell, woven between the din of the tavern noise. If you listen closely, you can hear Myste humming happily underneath it all.

-

They journey back to the Forgotten Knight after a lengthy chat with Count Edmont de Fortemps, are understandably spent, and practically throw themselves into the bed when they’re given the key to a room at Cloud Nine.

But they feel the need to write, before it slips through the cracks like sand and swirling aether. You peer over their shoulder. Their fingers tremble as they relive the memories, immortalizing their strange pilgrimage in streaks of ink.  _ Don’t forget, don’t forget…  _

You take their hand in yours - you have something you want them to take to their bleeding, scarred, too-large heart.

_ You are still a good person. _

You write the final line and watch them weep for the first time in moons.


End file.
